


What The Water Gave Me

by goodmenfall



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur's Return, Drowning, M/M, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmenfall/pseuds/goodmenfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lake is silent, still. An invitation. He comes here every New Year’s Eve, a prophecy burning a hole in him, and he waits. He’s been waiting for too long, he realises. It’s time he stopped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What The Water Gave Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Adelaide, who gave me inspiration, even though she doesn't know it.

_And all this devotion was rushing out of me  
In the crushes of heaven for a sinner like me_

 

 

Merlin watches the revellers around him, watches as the clock marches closer, marking out time as it has done for as long as he can remember. Longer of course than that, but that’s not what matters to him. _His_ time is what matters. The time that stretches out behind him, every moment remembered, endured; fresh. 

The time that is to come; infinite, eternal, empty.

Time is the enemy. The cruel mistress of his fate, every second, every hour like a blow, a taunt, a jibe. She holds him tightly, hanging like a butterfly between her finger and thumb. He doesn’t struggle any more. There was a time when he tried, when he fought for freedom, fought to be where he belonged, by Arthur's side, but his immortality was not to be bargained away with the help of a lethal cocktail or a long, deep cut into the pale skin of a slender wrist. There was always someone there to intervene. To _interfere_. The Fates must hate him, though not as much as he hates himself. For living. For carrying on. He doesn't want that. Never did. Not without him.

Merlin dreams about him almost every night; sometimes even when he’s awake. A flash of golden hair or a gleam of armour and blood red cloak and his heart closes for a moment: one blink later it’s gone and his lashes are cold against his skin. But when he sleeps, the dreams become his reality. Arthur is there beside him and his hand feels solid against his neck and Merlin can’t look away from Arthur’s beautiful smiling face: doesn't want to. The dreams are short at first, jumbled moments, a smile, a joke, cleaning his boots while Arthur complains about his breakfast, but for a year or so the dreams have become more coherent and linear, a memory of a day spent hunting together or fighting side by side, and the pain of being torn away when he wakes is such that it leaves him breathless and sobbing, fingers curled tightly into the sheets, knuckles white. Merlin dreads the dreams almost as much as he craves them.

He’s so tired now. He’s allowed himself to be young Merlin again for tonight; the old man works well for him out on the road, but tonight the pub is filled with students from the local college and it’s easier to disappear this way. Occasionally one of the the students tries to buy him a pint or start up a conversation, but there’s something about his eyes that haunts them, sends a cold shiver down their backs, and they soon drift away. Their thoughts almost always turn to loved ones: some send fond New Year texts to surprised family members; others go home with their partners and fuck them with a desperation that shatters them both, and they spend the rest of the night entwined together as if in defiance of the world, bemused by the intensity of their feelings.

Merlin turns away from the crowds, unwilling to share in their sense of hope, of a new beginning. For him, New Year’s Eve is all about endings. He knows without checking that it’s close to midnight, so he shoulders his rucksack and slips out of the warmth and the noise and into the bleak cold of the night. It’s the first clear night for almost a week and his eyes seek out the stars almost hungrily as he makes his way towards the lake. He passes a couple, two girls swaying arm in arm as they head to the pub to meet friends. They wave at him in the way people do when it’s New Year’s Eve and they’re a little bit drunk and he smiles at them, murmurs a greeting. He hears them stumble to a stop behind him, knows that they are clinging to each other, kissing, and his fists curl not in irritation, but in want. He blinks as the tears come and his step falters as he nears the lake. 

“Happy New Year!” one of the girls calls after him, and Merlin can barely continue walking, so heavy is his grief. The grass is wet from the rain that has fallen earlier in the day and Merlin is glad of his walking boots. He realises the absurdity of this train of thought , bearing in mind what he’s about to do, and laughs aloud. The girls cheer drunkenly in response and Merlin feels a weight lift from deep in his chest. Destiny may possibly be looking the other way this year. Merlin almost allows himself to hope, and it feels like coming home.

The rucksack lands on the ground with a wet thump and he sits himself down on it, breathing in the sharp winter air and waiting. His breath forms a cloud as he exhales, and with an amber glint of his eyes, a whispered word and a turn of his long fingers, he fashions it into a dragon. It hangs before him for a moment, an emblem of all that was and all that must be, and then it is gone. Merlin sniffs and scrubs at his face with the sleeves of his coat. He is tired of crying. Of _being_. The lake is silent, still. An invitation. He comes here every New Year’s Eve, a prophecy burning a hole in him, and he waits. He’s been waiting for too long, he realises. It’s time he stopped. 

The water is so cold that it bites into his skin, but Merlin keeps on wading, his eyes fluttering closed as he moves deeper into the lake. His heartbeat slows as the temperature plummets and it’s the most alive he’s felt since Arthur looked up into his face as he died in his arms. He can still feel the ghost of Arthur’s gloved hand on his neck as Merlin held him close, felt him fading from him, leaving him behind. Fingers of icy numbness pull him down further with each step and the water is almost to his shoulders. Merlin had expected to be frightened, but all he feels is a sense of exhilaration at the thought that at last it might be his time. He is certain that Arthur will be waiting for him. Waiting where he could not follow until now.

He glances up at the stars one last time and now with a gasp he’s fully submerged; the water has him at last. The butterfly has wriggled free and is drowning, its wings heavy and useless under the weight of the water. The water burns his lungs but he doesn't struggle, doesn't fight. 

He’s been fighting for too long now.

___

He knows that he has died, and yet still he sleeps. He remembers fractures of time, broken moments. Blue eyes laughing at him, scolding him, loving him. They comfort him, protect him from the darkness which nips at the edges of his thoughts, trying to consume him. He knows that as long as he can remember those blue eyes and the sound of that familiar voice , that he is safe. That he is remembered.

And so he sleeps. 

And dreams. 

He dreams of the man he once knew, once relied upon more than any other. Trusted more than any other. Loved more than any other. He dreams of him more and more, and he yearns to wake up from this sleep that is not a sleep. But still he lies, silent: lifeless, but not dead. Not really.  
Merlin is always looking for him in his dreams, and Arthur calls out to him, desperate to see the smile return to that familiar face. 

But not this dream. Merlin isn't looking for him at all. He is sitting cross legged by a lake and holding a chalice between his hands. He reaches forward and scoops up the lake water, drinking it down in huge gulps, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. Over and over again he does this, until the lake is half empty and Merlin is disappearing, his flesh fading to transparency, shimmering to nothing. Arthur cries out and the lungs which for so long have lain silent fill with air, and god how it burns but he fights for it, fights for his heart to beat once more.

Albion doesn't need him any more. Hasn't for a long time.

But Merlin does.

___

Merlin comes to with a howl of anguish which is cut short by a fit of coughing that feels as if it might cut him in two. He retches as his lungs struggle to expel the water in his system and he shudders as a hand strokes his back. Strong arms hold him as he collapses weakly, his sobs tearing at his ruined throat. A (gloved?) hand slides up to support his head and he is shifted so that he is cradled against a broad chest. And in that moment he _knows_ , and he doesn't need to tilt his face to look at him, or hear his voice, to know that it is indeed his time. Only he hasn't gone to Arthur.

Arthur has come back to him.

He searches blindly for Arthur’s hand, grasps it in his own, holds it tightly against his heart. He can feel Arthur’s heartbeat gradually slow down as the adrenaline leaves his body. 

“Hello Arthur,”Merlin says, his smile widening the words into an embrace.

Arthur shudders out a watery laugh and the hand on Merlin’s neck finds its way into his hair and stays there, stroking fondly.

“ _Mer_ lin,” he says at last, when he is finally able to speak. “Why are you such an idiot? You could have got us both killed, and I've already done that once. It’s not all that much fun, you know.”

Merlin wriggles in his grasp so that he can look at Arthur. They sit beside the lake, dripping wet, shivering with cold, and stare at each other for the longest time.

“No,” says Merlin at last, standing up and holding out a hand to Arthur. “No fun at all.”

Arthur gives Merlin’s hand a disdainful look and lumbers to his feet a little less confidently than he would have liked.

“Right then,” he says, wrapping his arms around himself against the cold. “How are we going to get off this godforsaken island? I’m freezing.”

Merlin smiles at him and rolls his eyes. 

“Magic, Arthur. Remember?”

He holds up his hand and murmurs a spell. He knows that Arthur is watching him and he trips over his words. Tries it again. 

“Can’t you feel it, Merlin?” Arthur moves to stand at his shoulder. “Don’t you feel different at all?”

“What do you mean?” But Merlin already knows the answer before he’s finished the question, and his hand falls to his side. “I’ve lost my magic.” Merlin’s voice breaks and Arthur’s hand finds his shoulder, comforting. 

“You’re a mortal now,” Arthur says softly. “We both are. It’s the price we had to pay for my return.” His hand slides from Merlin’s shoulder to the back of his neck and then Arthur is kissing him, a gentle, reassuring kiss, with a promise of more that leaves Merlin trembling. “So no more midnight swims for you, you idiot. This is it now. You and me, for as long as we have. A King with no throne and a sorcerer with no magic.”

Merlin pulls Arthur in for another kiss, and this time it’s not gentle, or reassuring, and it leaves them both shaken. “You’re going to have to really reduce my workload then,” Merlin says into Arthur’s neck, his fingers playing with Arthur’s shirt front. “It used to take the strongest magic I knew just to get your socks clean.”

Arthur smiles gently, understanding that losing his magic is hurting Merlin more than he could ever comprehend, but that it’s all right, no, it _will_ be all right, and he grabs Merlin by the elbow. “Come on,” he says, ruffling Merlin’s hair in a way that leaves Merlin powerless to argue. “I’m sure there’s a boat around here somewhere. Some idiot left me in it a thousand years ago.”

Merlin watches Arthur for a moment as he heads off confidently into the darkness. He jogs to catch up with him and Arthur bumps his shoulder before they wander off together, guided by the light of the moon.

For it was written long ago that where Arthur leads, Merlin will always follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song by Florence and the Machine. Quote is from Never Let Me go, also by Florence and the Machine.


End file.
